The Golden Spider (The Elemental Web Chronicles Book 1) (39 page)

Amanda slapped the reins again, and the horse slid into a trot.

“The gypsies and their antics might gain them access,” he said. “Or they might provide the chaos Lady Huntley needs to escape unnoticed.”

“Lady Huntley.” Amanda shook her head, still in disbelief.

“Once Lady Huntley has that plant, the
amatiflora
, she’ll disappear, and the fastest way for her to disappear is…‌”

“The submersible!”

“Exactly. The fastest way to exit London without being detected.”

“But it was in poor repair. And what of the kraken?” Amanda objected. “They’d swarm one that size.”

“A calculated risk, but by air or by land, she risks detection of her escape. Underwater, she can simply disappear.” Thornton consulted his pocket watch again. “Dusk approaches, and high tide is in less than an hour. The water will be at peak height, no need for anyone to operate the lock system. As the currents shift downstream, she’ll have a fast exit down the Thames. Once she enters that submersible and slides into the exit tube, it will be nearly impossible to stop her.”

Amanda slapped the reins again, sending the horse into a rhythmic gallop.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

B
EFORE THEY REACHED
the bridge, Amanda slowed down the mechanical beast long enough for Thornton to snag a messenger boy‌—‌a non-gypsy child. Thornton passed him a message scrawled on a scrap of paper and sent the boy in search of Black with the promise of a ridiculously generous reward if he succeeded in locating him within the next hour.

Though the boy ran away as fast as his legs would carry him, Amanda had little hope the cavalry would arrive in time to assist. If Lady Huntley really did intend to escape via submersible, there was nothing to prevent her from taking a hostage along with her to ensure a successful escape.

Vauxhall Bridge was almost straight when they began to cross; the tide was turning, the high waters sweeping past the damaged piers. They weren’t the only vardo braving the crumbling bridge. Dozens of brightly covered gypsy caravans dotted its surface.

Thornton muttered under his breath about untrained civilians while he reloaded the cartridges of his pistol.

Amanda’s stomach flip-flopped as the boards forming the surface of the bridge began to groan and creak. Ever so slowly, one section at a time, the structure began to bend with the tide, now favoring an eastward trajectory. She vowed this would be the last time she crossed the river at this point.

Near the far side, traffic slowed to a crawl. Shouts of anger, curses directed at the problem filled the air. The congestion, the commotion, all caused by an impromptu gypsy carnival outside the gates of Airship Sails.

“Pull over.” Thornton pointed to a patch of dirt and weeds the moment they’d reached solid ground. “There’s no chance we’ll make it to the gates. No chance they’d listen to me either.” He waved his hand at himself.

Amanda snorted. They made quite the pair. Lord Thornton, unshaven with a tangled mat of uncombed hair and red-rimmed eyes. A missing cravat, a wrinkled shirt, torn trousers and the accompanying bandages and brace. Her with hair tumbling about her shoulders, gown wrinkled beyond hope, a skirt stained with blood. No, they wouldn’t be let past the gate looking like two asylum escapees.

With a glance at Milosh to assure herself of the continued rise and fall of his chest, she climbed down from the vardo, following Thornton to stand beside a section of the great iron fence that surrounded Airship Sails. She followed his gaze into the distance. There, beside the river was the gap in the fence where the submersible tube emptied into the river, its exit invisible at high tide. “Can you make it?” she asked.

His face was pale, and he’d flinched every time the carriage had hit the slightest bump. Since the surgery, he’d only managed to walk some ten feet, and half that was inside the vardo with his hand pressed against the wall. The gap in the fence was a good five hundred feet away. The submersible station itself, even further‌—‌and an uphill climb. “One step at a time. What other choice is there?” With gritted teeth, he set off toward the river, down the sloping riverbank, whacking weeds and brush out of their path with his cane.

Out on the river, various boats made their way seaward, following the tidal current. Standing at the front of each boat was a man armed with an air harpoon, ready to defend cargo from kraken.

She glanced down at her already ruined skirts and‌—‌grateful she’d worn half boots‌—‌plunged into the scrubby growth behind him. Branches caught and clawed at her stockings. Dips in the ground and unexpected rocks turned her ankles, threatening a sprain. Odd, scurrying sounds erupted from the underbrush, running‌—‌thankfully‌—‌away from her.

At last they reached the edge of the Thames. Less than a yard of the tidal flat remained‌—‌rocky, muddy and debris-strewn. Strange pale weeds grew at the water’s edge. Her boot squished into the muck, and she stumbled, arms flailing in a desperate bid to regain her balance.

She lost and landed on her rump in the mud.

Mud, gravel, bone. That was as far as her mind allowed, before rebelling at classifying any further the components that constituted the Thames riverbank. Wet seeped through the folds of her skirts, and she very much regretted the absence of a bustle.

She twisted, looking for something‌—‌anything‌—‌to grab hold of in order to pull herself from the soggy, lumpy substance beneath her. There was nothing. “Thornton!” she called, her voice rising in distress.

Beside her in the…‌ mud, lay a kraken, some five inches in total length. Its beak looked razor sharp, the hooks on the ends of its tentacles piercing. A tentacle flopped weakly, stretching toward her with hundreds of tiny suckers.

“Keep your hands out of the mud,” Thornton ordered.

She obeyed, quite willing to await rescue. For less than a foot away from that kraken lay another. Then another. And another. Hundreds of kraken in various states of decay lay strewn across the exposed riverbed.

Perhaps the river men had cause for concern after all. One or two enormous kraken would be easier to deal with than thousands of these small ones.

She looked out at the crowded Vauxhall Bridge spanning the river’s choppy waves, imagining thousands of the creatures fighting to make a home in the river, millions of tiny hooks eroding the bridge piers.

No, she would never cross that bridge again.

Thornton’s boots squelched in the mud beside her and his shadow fell across her, one hand extended. “My lady.”

She reached up, accepting his offer. “Many thanks.” Her hands went to her waist, quickly unhooking the overskirt. She let the damp silk folds slump to the ground. Her petticoats might be damp, but at least she wouldn’t be dragging around who-knew-what behind her.

His eyes flashed approval.

“When did the kraken infestation grow so dire?” she asked, following him carefully and stealing horrified glances at the river’s edge. Pale, suckered tentacles waved. She’d mistaken tentacles for weeds.

“It’s only noticeable at certain locations. The cryptozoologists are studying the situation. Something about eddies and nutrient flow and proper habitat. But for us the key concern is this.” He stopped at the edge of the water, pointing. “The kraken that live there.”

Jutting out into the river some two feet below the water’s surface lay a mussel-encrusted, curved iron structure: the submersible tube. Swimming about the opening of the tube were hundreds of the creatures, churning the water above them with their movements.

“They live in pipes?” She heard the horror in her own voice.

He nodded. “Apparently the female kraken have learned to use large pipes to replace sea caves. As they are sexually mature at five feet, it would appear London won the battle, not the war.”

“Will it stop the submersible?”

“Impossible to know.”

At low tide, passengers would board the submersible at the station. With the hatch sealed, the submersible entered into the lock, a gated and flooded, tub-like structure. Then, in one great motion, the riverside doors would open, releasing a great flood of water into the tube along with the submersible, shooting the vessel out through this tube into the Thames.

At high tide, when the tube’s exit was submerged, the lock system was unnecessary. A submersible simply, well, submerged and quietly carried its passengers away. In the case of spies, never to be seen again. Unless the volume of kraken clogging the tube was sufficient to stop passage of the submersible?

Thornton turned and began limping up the riverbank, determination in every step.

With hopes of rescue, Amanda threw a final glance over her shoulder, scanning the river. None of the boats appeared to be official Navy craft‌—‌not that Black was likely to pilot a marked vessel‌—‌but neither did any appear headed in their direction. Timely assistance seemed less likely than ever. She followed Thornton up the riverbank along the path of disrupted river brush to stand by his side at the fence.

As the tube crested the riverbank, it erupted from the ground like an enormous annelid‌—‌wormlike and segmented‌—‌and passed through the vine-covered iron fence. In the distance, she could see it disappear into the low brick wall of the submersible tank.

A small building crouched on the edge of the tank. The submersible station. Not far beyond it sat the engine house, its chimney stretching up into the gray sky, belching great puffs of black smoke.

Near Airship Sail’s official gates, a crowd gathered, watching the gypsy’s antics from inside the tall fence. Many yelled encouragement to the entertainers, but Amanda could also hear insults. A few threw pebbles from the ground at the performers.

Supervisors shouted at the distracted workers, waving their arms and pointing, unsuccessful at their attempts to direct employees back into the factory.

But some still worked diligently, moving about the factory yard, operating the machinery that carried in great rolls of silver airship fabric on enormous spools. Others drove wide steam wagons each loaded with a single large crate‌—‌one complete dirigible skin.

No one seemed particularly alarmed. No gypsies seemed to have breached the fence. None seemed to be Nicu or Nadya. Or in the company of Lady Huntley.

But in the gathering dusk, it was hard to be certain.

She turned to Thornton, “What…‌” The words died on her lips.

He was holding onto the iron bars of the fence with a white-knuckled grip. Her gaze dropped to his bandaged leg. Blood seeped through the linen strips.

For his sake, Amanda hoped Lady Huntley could be dropped to the ground from a distance with a well-aimed TTX bullet. For she knew he would not stop. Could not stop. Not until their technology was safely back in the hands of the British and Nadya returned to her family.

“A moment,” he said, closing his eyes and lowering his forehead to rest on his arms. He pulled in several deep breaths, then lifted his face once more, tipping his head toward the fence. “We’ll have to squeeze through. Carefully.” He pulled a knife from his boot.

Sections of the iron fence struts had been cut away to create a roughly circular opening in the fence. It had been a hack job, leaving a gap between the tube and the iron bars. A thick growth of brambles arched over the tube and through the fence. Enough to discourage casual curiosity, but not enough to stop the truly determined.

The brambles were mostly leafless now, exposing their barbs to view. But if cut away, there was enough room to squeeze through.

She held out her hand for the knife. “Take the time to rest. Let me.”

Thornton handed the blade over without hesitation.

Regretting deeply the lack of gloves, Amanda cut away the prickly brambles, branch by branch. By the time she was done, her hands stung and were crosshatched with scratches. She’d managed to avoid the sharp, rusty points of the fence, but not the brambles.

“Ready,” she said at last. Then flattened herself against the tube, shuffling sideways through the narrow passageway, the fence catching at her clothing. “Careful,” she warned Thornton, pointing at the sections of the fence that had been cut.

He slid through.

Together, they crossed to the wall of the tank and crouched behind a low thicket of evergreen scrub. Thornton caught her hand. Cleared his throat. “Amanda, if something happens to me, you should know…‌”

Her heart pounded in anticipation. A declaration? Now? Here?

A cry went up in the distance. “Stop!”

Dozens of gypsies swarmed the gates of Airship Sails, climbing over each other until several were able to scramble over the top and drop to inside. Chaos erupted.

“Stay close,” Thornton commanded. He drew his weapon and moved at an angle through the brush.

Chapter Thirty-Eight